By riverflows on Skatehive
It's a complex thing, grief, with sharp angles. I can be tracking along nicely along some line, feeling Dad recede in the rearview, comfortable with this new world where he is a fond, fond memory, and then I'm careening round some hairpin with a pain in my chest. There's a giftshop in town I pass when I pop into the supermarket, and she always plays what I call 'Dad's music', though I like it too. As I politely looked through clothes that wouldn't fit me and earrnings that wouldn't suit me, I mentioned I liked her music - she was playing Harry Manx, whose style some call 'mysticissipi' because it blends blues with Indian music. Dad, at the stereo, a month before he died. I join her Spotify accidentally as I search for Hans Theeslink, who I think she'd like. We swap some music notes and talk about our Dads. I cry, she cries. We laugh. It's a moment, before other people walk in the shop and she's redirected. At home I put on Manx's album 'Way Out East', an album which so very beautifully